Some days I thought I was crazy.

Maybe I was.

After all, wasn't it crazy to continue to believe in something when everyone told you it did not exist?

I had been taught to believe in Her since I was but a child. Stories  whispered by a soft voice from the cradle right up until that same voice became weak and weary. Even on her death bed Mother had never faltered in her faith.

Closing my eyes, I drew in a breath to soothe the sudden ache in my chest. I could still see my mother's world weary face peering down at me; the pure joy she radiated as she told me about Her. I never saw an ounce of doubt in her eyes - even when her lungs became ravaged by disease and she suffered through endless months of pain and sickness.

I could almost hear her fervent words, "Talia, you must always remember to believe. Believe for everyone who has forgotten how to. They think seeing is believing but, in truth, only those who believe in Her can see the beauty she's brought."

And so I did.

Even when those in my class laughed at my devout faith and when the world begun fixating on their ugly machines of steam and metal. I still believed when ugly names and fists were thrown at me. 

Maybe that's why only I had seen her. 

I had believed wholeheartedly and I was rewarded with her presence. Even her human form couldn't dim the power and goodness which poured from her. She had been beautiful - I knew that. Yet, when I attempted to recreate her image in my mind, it's always different. It wasn't important -  only the feelings which radiated from Her were.

Joy. Love. Comfort.

My faith earned me one profound, life-altering moment of Her  light before the goddess was gone forever. 

I glanced away from the smog filled skyline and returned my attention back to the easel before me. The strokes were harsh and unpractised. I'd never had talent in the arts but I was driven day after day to recreate Her image.

It was a fruitless exercise. It was as if, in an attempt to shield us from the pain of her absence, the world erased all signs of her existence. Statutes weathered away in hours, murals peeled and flaked until her image became indecipherable, and paint just bubbled off of the canvas.

The rest of the human race had moved on, unaware of the mortal peril they'd faced and the one who had saved them. Yet in a cruel twist of fate,  I was the only one spared from the blessed relief of ignorance. 

I still remembered.

I still believed.

I painted even though it would all be destroyed come dawn.

I had to try and leave some proof of her existence. 

After all, I was only human and, when I finally succumbed to death, the truth would die with me. 

I was the last believer.